Doctor, you say that there are no haloesaround the streetlights in Parisand what I see is an aberrationcaused by old age, an affliction.I tell you it has taken me all my lifeto arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels,to soften and blur and finally banishthe edges you regret I don't see,to learn that the line I called the horizondoes not exist and sky and water,so long apart, are the same state of being.Fifty-four years before I could seeRouen cathedral is builtof parallel shafts of sun,and now you want to restoremy youthful errors: fixednotions of top and bottom,the illusion of three-dimensional space,wisteria separatefrom the bridge it covers.What can I say to convince youthe Houses of Parliament dissolvenight after night to becomethe fluid dream of the Thames?I will not return to a universeof objects that don't know each other,as if islands were not the lost childrenof one great continent. The worldis flux, and light becomes what it touches,becomes water, lilies on water,above and below water,becomes lilac and mauve and yellowand white and cerulean lamps,small fists passing sunlightso quickly to one anotherthat it would take long, streaming hairinside my brush to catch it.To paint the speed of light!Our weighted shapes, these verticals,burn to mix with airand changes our bones, skin, clothesto gases. Doctor,if only you could seehow heaven pulls earth into its armsand how infinitely the heart expandsto claim this world, blue vapor without end.